BLAKE HOLDS HIS GROUND
Dinner was finished at Sandymere, Miss Challoner had gone out, and, in
accordance with ancient custom, the cloth had been removed from the
great mahogany table. Its glistening surface was only broken by a
decanter, two choice wine-glasses, and a tall silver candlestick.
There were lamps in other parts of the room, but Challoner liked
candles. Lighting a cigar, Blake looked about while he braced himself
for the ordeal that must be faced.
He knew the big room well, but its air of solemnity, with which the
heavy Georgian furniture was in keeping, impressed him. The ceiling
had been decorated by a French artist of the eighteenth century and the
faded delicacy of the design, bearing as it did the stamp of its
period, helped to give the place a look of age. Challoner could trace
his descent much further than his house and furniture suggested, but
the family had first come to the front in the East India Company's
wars, and while maintaining its position afterwards had escaped the
modernizing influence of the country's awakening in the early Victorian
days. It seemed to Blake, fresh from the new and democratic West, that
his uncle, shrewd and well-informed man as he was, was very much of the
type of Wellington's officers. For all that he pitied him. Challoner
looked old and worn, and there were wrinkles that hinted at anxious
thought round his eyes. His life was lonely, and his unmarried sister,
who spent much of her time in visits, was the only relative who shared
his home. Now that age was limiting his activities and interests, he
had one great source of gratification; the career of the soldier son
who was worthily following in his steps. His nephew determined that
this should be saved for him, as he remembered the benefits he had
received at his hands.
By and by Challoner filled the glasses. "Dick," he said, "I'm very
glad to see you home. I should like to think you have come to stay."
"Thank you, sir. I'll stay as long as you need me."
"I feel I need you altogether. It's now doubtful whether Bertram will
leave India after all. His regiment has been ordered into the hills
where there's serious trouble brewing, and he has asked permission to
remain. Even if he comes home, he will have many duties, and I have
nobody left."
Blake did not answer immediately, and his uncle studied him. Dick had
grown thin, but he looked very hard, and the evening dress set off his
fine, muscular figure. His face was still somewhat pinched, but its
deep bronze and the steadiness of his eyes and firmness of his lips
gave him a very soldierly look and a certain air of distinction. There
was no doubt that he was true to the Challoner type.
Then Blake said slowly, "I must go back sooner or later, sir; there is
an engagement I am bound to keep. Besides, your pressing me to stay
raises a question. The last time we met you acquiesced in my decision
that I had better keep out of the country, and I see no reason for
changing it."
"The question must certainly be raised; that is why I sent for you.
You can understand my anxiety to learn what truth there is in the
stories I have heard."
"It might be better if you told me all about it."
"Very well; the task is painful, but it can't be shirked. We'll take
the woman's tale first." Challoner carefully outlined Mrs. Chudleigh's
theory of what had happened during the night attack and Blake listened
quietly.
"Now," he said, "you might give me Clarke's account."
Challoner did so and concluded: "Both these people have an obvious end
to serve, and I daresay they're capable of misrepresenting things to
suit it. I'll confess I found the thought comforting; but I want the
truth, Dick. I must do what's right."
"In the first place, Clarke, who once approached me about the matter,
will never trouble either of us again. I helped to bury him up in the
wilds."
"Dead!" exclaimed Challoner.
"Frozen. In fact, it was not his fault we escaped his fate. He set a
trap for us, intending that we should starve."
"But why?"
"His motive was obvious," Blake rejoined. "There was a man with us
whose farm and stock would, in the event of his death, fall into
Clarke's hands, and it's clear that I was a serious obstacle in his
way. Can't you see that he couldn't use his absurd story to bleed you
unless I supported it?"
Challoner felt the force of this. He was a shrewd man, but just then
he was too disturbed to reason closely and failed to perceive that his
nephew's refusal to confirm the story did not necessarily disprove it.
That Clarke had thought it worth while to attempt his life bulked most
largely in his uncle's eye.
"He urged me to take some shares in a petroleum syndicate," he remarked.
"Then I believe you missed a good thing, sir." Blake seized upon the
change of topic. "The shares would probably have paid you well."
"I thought he proposed it to make the thing look better; in fact, to
give me something to salve my conscience with."
"Anyway, he found the oil and put us on the track of it, though I don't
suppose he had any wish to do the latter. We expect to make a good
deal out of the discovery."
"It looks like justice," said Challoner. "But we are getting away from
the point. I'd better tell you that after my talk with the man I felt
he might be dangerous and that I must send for you."
"Why didn't you send for Bertram?"
Challoner hesitated. "When I cabled out instructions to find you,
there was no word of his leaving India; then you must see how hard it
would have been to hint at my suspicions. This would have opened a
breach between us that could never be closed."
"Yes," said Blake, leaning forward on the table and speaking earnestly,
"your reluctance was very natural. I'm afraid of presuming too far,
but I can't understand how you could believe this thing of your only
son."
"It lies between my son and my nephew, Dick."
There was emotion in the Colonel's voice. "I had a great liking for
your father and I brought you up. Then I took a keen pride in you;
there were respects in which I found you truer to our type than
Bertram."
"You heaped favours on me," Blake replied. "That I bitterly
disappointed you has been my deepest shame; in fact, it's the one thing
that counts. For the rest, I can't regret the friends who turned their
backs on me, and poverty never troubled the Blakes."
"But the taint--the stain upon your name!"
"I have the advantage of bearing it alone, and, to tell the truth, it
doesn't bother me much. That a man should go straight in the present
is all they ask in Canada, and homeless adventurers with no
possessions, which is the kind of comrades I've generally met, are
charitable. As a rule, it wouldn't become them to be fastidious.
Anyhow, sir, you must see the absurdity of believing that Bertram could
have failed in his duty in the way these tales suggest."
"I once felt that strongly; the trouble is that the objection applies
with equal force to you. Your mother had a resolute character; your
father was a daring man."
Blake coloured as he answered: "I'm glad you mentioned this; my parents
can't be held responsible for my faults. You must know that rather
surprising variations are apt to appear in a family strain. It's
possible I'm what gardeners call a sport; a throwback to some inferior
type. There may have been a weakling even among the Challoners."
"I have dreaded that there was one in the present generation," the
Colonel answered with stern gravity. "But we get no farther. Do you
deny the stories these people have told me?"
Blake felt that his task was hard. He had to convict himself and must
do so logically, since Challoner was by no means a fool. As he nerved
himself to the effort he was conscious of a rather grim amusement.
"I think it would be better if I tried to show you how the attack was
made. Is the old set of Indian chessmen still in the drawer?"
"I believe so. It must be twenty years since they were taken out.
It's strange you should remember them."
A stirring of half-painful emotions troubled Blake.
He loved the old house and all that it contained and had a deep-seated
pride in the Challoner traditions. Now he must show that he was a
degenerate scion of the honoured stock and could have no part in them.
"I have forgotten nothing at Sandymere, but we must stick to the
subject." Crossing the floor he came back with the chessmen, which he
carefully arranged, setting up the white pawns in two separate ranks to
represent bodies of infantry, with the knights and bishops for
officers. The coloured pieces he placed in an irregular mass.
"Now," he continued, "this represents the disposition of our force
pretty well, and I've good reason for remembering it. I was here, at
the top of the ravine"--he laid a cigar on the table to indicate the
spot--"Bertram on the ridge yonder. This bunch of red pawns stands for
the Ghazee rush."
"It agrees with what I've heard," said Challoner, surveying the roughly
marked scene of battle with critical eyes. "You were weak in numbers,
but your position was strong. It could have been held."
"We'll take Mrs. Chudleigh's suggestion first." Blake began to move
the pieces. "The Ghazees rolled straight over our first line; my mine,
which might have checked them, wouldn't go off; a broken circuit in the
firing wires, I suppose. We were hustled out of the trenches; it was
too dark for effective rifle fire."
"The trench the second detachment held should have been difficult to
rush."
"Oh! well," said Blake, "you must remember that the beggars were
Ghazees; they're hard to stop. Then our men were worn out and had been
sniped every night for the last week or two. However, the bugler's the
key to my explanation; I'll put this dab of cigar ash here to represent
him. This bishop's Bertram, and you can judge by the distance whether
the fellow could have heard the order to blow, 'Cease fire,' through
the row that was going on."
He resumed his quick moving of the chessmen, accompanying it by a
running commentary. "Here's another weak point in the woman's tale,
which must be obvious to any one who has handled troops; these fellows
couldn't have gained a footing in this hollow because it was raked by
our fire. There was no cover and the range was short. Then you see
the folly of believing that the section with which the bugler was could
have moved along the ridge; they couldn't have crossed between the
Ghazees and the trench. They'd have been exposed to our own fire in
the rear."
He added more to much the same effect, and concluded: "I think that
disposes of Mrs. Chudleigh's theory."
Challoner made a sign of agreement without speaking, and Blake,
lighting a fresh cigar, leaned back in his chair. He believed he had
succeeded so far, but he was feeling the strain.
"Now I'll deal with Clarke's suggestion; it's certainly ingenious," he
said presently and began to rearrange the chessmen.
Proceeding much as he had already done, he followed the movements of
the pieces with short explanations, and when he finally swept them up
into a heap looked hard at his companion.
"I think you ought to be convinced," he said.
"It all turns upon the bugler's movements," Challoner remarked.
"And he was killed. Mrs. Chudleigh's account presupposes that he was
in one place, Clarke's in another, while I've tried to show you that he
couldn't have been in either."
Challoner was silent for a time and Blake watched him anxiously until
he looked up.
"I think you have succeeded, Dick, though I feel that with a trifling
alteration here and there you could have cleared yourself. Now we'll
let the painful matter drop for good, unless, indeed, some fresh light
is ever thrown on it."
"That can't happen," Blake replied and added with a gleam of humour:
"As a matter of fact, I'd sooner remain in friendly obscurity."
Challoner rose and laid a hand on his arm. "If you were once at fault,
you have since shown yourself a man of honour. Though the thing hurt
me at the time, I'm glad you are my nephew. Had there been any
baseness in you, some suspicion must always have rested on your cousin.
Well, we are neither of us sentimentalists, but I must say that you
have amply made amends."
He turned away and Blake went out into the open air to walk up and
down. The face of the old house rose above him, dark against the clear
night sky; in front the great oaks in the park rolled back in shadowy
masses. Blake, who loved Sandymere, had thought of it often in his
wanderings, and now he was glad that through his action his cousin
would enjoy it without reproach. After all, it was some return to make
for the favours he had received. For himself there remained the charm
of the lonely trail and the wide wilderness, unless, indeed, Harding
succeeded better than Blake really expected with his petroleum
exploitation scheme.
For all that, he had been badly tempted. Poverty and disgrace were
serious obstacles to marriage, and had he been free to do so, he would
eagerly have sought the hand of Millicent Graham. He knew now that he
loved her and it was hard to hold his longing for her in check, but
while this must be done for the present he did not altogether despair.
He was hopeful and believed that if she loved him, she would not shrink
from his painful story, while it was possible that another of his
disadvantages might be removed. Harding was confident that they were
going to be rich. Thinking about the girl tenderly, he walked up and
down the terrace until he grew calm, and then went in to talk to Miss
Challoner.
The next fortnight passed uneventfully and then one afternoon he met
Millicent in a field-path and turned back with her to Hazlehurst. It
was a raw day and the wind had brought a fine colour into her face,
while she wore a little fur cap and fur-trimmed jacket which he thought
became her very well.
"You have not been over often; Foster was remarking about it," she said
to him.
"That's true," said Blake, who had kept away for fear of his resolution
melting if he saw much of her. "Still, my uncle seems to think he has
a prior claim, and I mayn't be able to stay with him long."
"Then you are going back to Canada?" The quick way the girl looked up,
and something in her tone, suggested unpleasant surprise, for she had
been taken off her guard.
"I shall have to go when Harding needs me. I haven't heard from him
since I arrived, but I'll get my summons sooner or later."
"I thought you had come home for good."
There was rueful humour but no bitterness in Blake's smile. "Oh! no;
though I'm very fond of it, Sandymere is not my home. It will be
Bertram's by and by and he is married. I'm the poor relation and no
great credit to the family."
Millicent's colour deepened, but she looked at him steadily. "I think
that is wrong. Since you have been so frank, I may perhaps say that I
know there has been a serious mistake somewhere."
"I'm flattered," Blake rejoined, and something in his voice was out of
keeping with his half whimsical bow. "It's nice to know your friends
think well of you; but you mustn't let your good-nature get the better
of your judgment."
"Perhaps I shouldn't have ventured so far." There was a hint of
impatience in Millicent's gesture. "But are you content with your life
in the North-West?"
"It has its charm. There are very few restrictions, one feels free.
The fences haven't reached us yet; you can ride as far as you can see
over miles of grass and through the clumps of bush. There's something
attractive in the wide horizon; the riband of trail that seems to run
forward for ever draws you on."
"But the Arctic frost and snow?"
"After all, they're bracing. Our board shacks with the big stoves in
them are fairly warm, and no one can tell what developments may
suddenly come about in such a country. A railroad may be run through,
wheat-land opened up, minerals found, and wooden cities spring up from
the empty plain. Life's rapid and strenuous; one is swept along with
the stream."
"But you were in the wilds."
Blake laughed. "We were, but not far behind us the tide of population
pours across the plain, and if we had stayed a year or two in the
timber, it would have caught us up. That flood won't stop until it
reaches the Polar Sea."
"But can people live in a rugged land covered with snow that only melts
for a month or two?"
"It depends upon what they find there. So long as the country has
natural resources, the climate doesn't count. One hears of precious
metals and some are being mined." He paused and added in a tone of
humorous confidence: "My partner believes in oil."
They were now close to Hazlehurst and Millicent could ask no more
questions because as they reached the high-road Mrs. Keith joined them.
"You might go in and write the letter I told you about," she said to
Millicent, and then turned to Blake. "As I want a quiet walk, Dick, I
daresay you will keep me company."
Blake said he would be delighted, and when Millicent had left them
remarked: "I didn't know you were given to this form of exercise."
"I may as well tell you that I came out because I couldn't take part in
the meaningless chatter that was going on. As a matter of fact, I was
too disturbed to stay in."
"May one ask what disturbed you?"
"Mrs. Foster's announcement that Mrs. Chudleigh is coming down again.
She only heard this morning."
"You think this means a fresh attack upon my persecuted relative?"
"Judge for yourself. Mrs. Chudleigh had no pressing invitation to come
back and has not been away long; after all, she and Lucy Foster are not
great friends. Now she has only a flimsy excuse for the visit--I've
seen her letter. Why should the woman force herself into Hazlehurst,
unless it's to be within striking distance of your uncle?"
"I don't know. I suppose she couldn't have come down independently and
called on him, because it would have excited remark; but that's not the
question. The Colonel mustn't see her."
"How would you prevent his doing so if she goes to the house?"
"I think," said Blake, "the matter could be most effectively dealt with
by letting her see me."
"An excellent plan, but if your uncle's to be kept in ignorance, it
will need some arranging."
"Undoubtedly," said Blake; "that's your business."
"I suppose I must undertake it. The probability is that Mrs. Chudleigh
doesn't know you are at home and she must, if possible, be kept from
learning it until she sees you. As she's only down for a few days, I
expect she'll make her first move to-morrow. Is your uncle going to
the Croxleigh meet?"
"He is; so am I. Is there any risk of Mrs. Chudleigh's turning up at
the cover?"
"I don't think so. Foster has only one spare horse, and as he promised
it to Millicent I'll see she goes. I'm more afraid that Mrs. Chudleigh
will make Lucy Foster take her across to Sandymere in the afternoon,
and if I'm able to prevent that, she'll go alone. She has cultivated
an acquaintance with your aunt."
"Well," said Blake, "it's a long way to Croxleigh, and the Colonel
won't ride hard. He'll probably be satisfied with seeing the hounds
throw off and then go quietly home. As it happens, there isn't a
direct road."
"Where does all this lead?"
"I should imagine it will be four o'clock when he gets back, while by
leaving the hunt and heading straight across country I ought to beat
him by some time. In fact, I might get rid of the lady before he
arrives. After she has seen me she mayn't wish to stay."
"Very well," said Mrs. Keith. "If Lucy goes to Sandymere, I'll go with
them and hurry them off as soon as I can. Then I'll try to make an
opportunity for you."
After a few more words she dismissed him and turned back to Hazlehurst.
She thought the plan would work.